


The Interview

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Jefferson, it is of utmost importance to convene about this plan.""It's not the MOST important--""Thomas Peter Randolph Jefferson, if you know what's good for you, just come over at five PM."





	The Interview

“‘Jefferson, it is of utmost importance to convene about this plan,’” Thomas imitated, then growled in frustration. “Stupid Hamilton, stupid freaking debt plan.” He threw his coat onto his bed and began rummaging around in his closet for nice clothes. “Stupid gremlin,” he muttered, settling for his maroon jacket with egg-white sleeves and a thin tank top underneath. He glanced in the mirror. His pants were fine, probably; but he had this insatiable urge to prove himself to be better than Hamilton, to impress the smaller man in a way. So he changed into the dark blue ones that hugged his calves and his waist like leggings, and was satisfied with that choice.

―

When he got to Hamilton’s house, he found it to be a nice, seemingly small white house, with two cement steps leading up to a white-painted wooden porch and a door beyond that. He jogged up to the front door and knocked, and after waiting five seconds jabbed his finger into the doorbell.

Almost immediately, the door swung open and Thomas was face-to-face with a wild-haired, apron-clad Hamilton.

“H-hey,” he panted, as if he had just sprinted from somewhere, “come in. I was thinking we could discuss it over dinner? Unless you’ve already ate, I mean―”

“No, yeah, that’s fine, I guess,” Thomas responded, somewhat surprised. “I- yeah. Okay.”

He entered the house and saw a living room first, and a little bit beyond that, a hardwood-floor area connected to the living room. He assumed it to be the dining room based off of the table in the middle of it. It had two plates, across the table from each other, and some covered dishes. Hamilton grinned awkwardly and gestured for Thomas to sit down, so the Virginian did just that.

Hamilton then sat in the other chair, untying the apron to reveal a rumpled t-shirt. “Umm...sorry,” he chuckled, trying to smooth out the wrinkles and appear professional without being unnecessarily ostentatious.

“It-it’s fine, really,” Thomas muttered, “uh...can we we eat?”

As if this statement was surprising, Hamilton looked up. “What? Isn’t Madison coming?”

“Madison can’t come, him and his wife are out of town this week,” Thomas explained, and Hamilton frowned, clearly suspicious. Of what, though, Thomas had no idea.

“He was supposed to be the mediator.”

“We’ll be fine.”

Hamilton raised his eyebrows and looked down in that way people do when they assume they’re right but also aren’t supposed to argue about it, and then shrugged. “I guess we can eat. Um, are you fine with spicy food?”

“Spicy food?” Thomas repeated, confused.

“I, uh, my mom’s sister- my aunt- had a curry recipe, it’s really good, and it’s the only food I can make besides oven-heated pizza,” Hamilton laughed sheepishly.

For some strange reason, the small talk seemed to put Thomas more at ease, and he mentioned many times that the food was good, especially the flavored chicken that served as a topping to the rice and broth.

Hamilton seemed hesitant to accept this praise, and overall more timid while the conversation was focused on basic things. But the second Thomas mentioned the debt plan, Hamilton's eyes darted up, affronted.

“I prefer to keep work separate from enjoyment,” he interjected, and Thomas frowned.

“I thought the purpose of this dinner was to discuss your debt plan.”

“I―” Hamilton glanced up at Thomas, then flushed deep red and looked down. “Right. Sorry.”

The other purpose that Hamilton was obviously thinking of dawned on Thomas quicker than he'd like to admit, but he didn't say anything more on the subject.

“So, your proposal is a trade?” Thomas queried, and Hamilton nodded.

“You get the capital, I get the banks. That...that’s honestly it.”

“And giving us ‘pretentious southern adversaries’ the nation’s capital is a sacrifice you’re willing to make?” Thomas challenged with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Hamilton shrugged. “In all honesty you aren’t that bad. I’m just concerned that either you or Madison will ally with James Monroe. He’s a self-proclaimed hippie, but really oppressive of people who aren’t cishet whites.”

At this, Thomas’ eyebrows drew together. “I’m not a ‘cishet white,’ Hamilton, if you haven’t noticed. Plus, I don’t know anything about him besides the fact that you despise him. And I’m not  _ that _ petty.”

“Well, I only hate him because he ruined my relationship with Eliza― but, wait, you― you’re not cishet? Well, I mean, I know you’re not white, but you implied that you weren’t  _ either _ ―”

“I’m not trans, if that’s what you’re asking. But I am... uhm, I like males.”

“Ah.”

A strange silence settled over the pair, and they ate in silence until Thomas spoke up, “can I have some more...that?” He gestured jerkily to the heaping plate of rice and pot of curry in the center of the table.

“Yeah, sure,” Hamilton responded, standing up to give Thomas the second serving he asked for. When he had dipped into the small serving pot and got a reasonable amount, though, his hand slipped and he accidentally spilled the still-hot curry on Thomas. He winced, noticing it had landed on the taller man’s exposed undershirt, but spared the jacket.

“Sorrysorrysorry―”

“No, I―  _ ahh _ , that’s  _ hot _ ,” Thomas groaned, and Hamilton grew even redder. He did his best to wipe it off with a napkin, and then Thomas pushed him away gently. “I’ve got it.”

He stood up and pulled off his jacket, and then, without warning, removed his tank top as well. This was evidently not helping Hamilton’s internal predicament, as he flushed yet a deeper shade of red and bit his lip.

“Can you wash this? We might be able to talk long enough to let it dry, or I could give it to you at work tomorrow―”

“Go.”

Thomas paused after pulling on his jacket, tank top still in hand. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Get out of my house,” Hamilton hissed, leading Thomas by the elbow to the front room, by the door.

“No! Why―”

“Just go, we can reconvene when Madison has time to mediate.”

“I―” Thomas glanced around frantically, desperately, for a reason to stay. “It-it’s cold outside!”

Suddenly Hamilton whirled on him. “Oh I’m sorry, is baby cold? Would you like a scarf, would you like a kiss goodnight? Came into my house all dominant and commanding and now you want to play  _ that _ card?”

“Hamilton, wait―”

“Do you want my scarf? Here,  _ take it _ ,” Hamilton sibilated, yanking the green and grey scarf from its hook and shoving it into Thomas’ arms. “Are you still cold? Do you want some hot cocoa, do you need a nice warm kiss?” The shorter man squinted his eyes and leaned forward, and Thomas took a step back.

“I-I’m sorry,” Thomas stammered, misinterpreting Hamilton’s intent only partially. Yeah, Hamilton did it under the  _ pretense _ of getting Thomas to leave, but in actuality he did want to see what the Virginian would do.

“Go,” Hamilton instructed shakily, pointing at the door. Thomas shuffled out, and then Hamilton stopped him.

“I’ll wash the shirt.”

“It had better not smell like you.”

“Be glad I’m washing it instead of your stupid laundromat. Now, goodnight.”


End file.
